We get to a house, a really beautiful huge Victorian. We go inside, and a woman who appears to be a friend (one of the annoying types that it’s hard to really define, not sure if I really like her, or just tolerate her) shows us around. She’s Lucy Ricardo, although not quite – it’s almost like it’s some other character that Lucille Ball would have played, the annoying but lovable friend. She walks our small group up a flight of stairs, explaining that she was going to “cottage up” the house, but didn’t get a chance, and she apologizes for it not being in “cottage condition.” The stairs are a gleaming dark wood, like walnut. The staircase goes up and up, and I run my hand along the bannister, which is plastered over the top (which seems odd) in a dark purple (which seems even more odd.) The bannister joins another kind mid-flight, and I run my hand along the join, thinking that it’s strange the way it was set up. We go up past floor after floor of exquisite dining rooms, sitting rooms, libraries. All of it is rich and splendid. I feel jealous of Lucy, as if she has gotten this by marrying or some other means than working for it. We get to an upper floor, and walk through a room or two with dark wallpapering and woods. I remark as an aside to one of my other friends who’s in the group, that she hasn’t given back much of my stuff; there are things here which belong to me, that she has just forgotten about and used in her decorative scheme. I walk through one room that has tables with garage sale stuff, mostly small jewelry, arranged out on a table cloth; each piece has a small typed card with it, explaining the provenance. I examine several of them, reading the cards. I remember that this garage sale was a project that we had planned together, but it had never happened. I see a shelf of hand-bound books, and I pull one out; I say, “There are things that she has of mine, because she lost her own,” and point to the book, which is a collection of slim pattern magazines bound together; I remember that she lost hers, borrowed mine, and forgot that it wasn’t hers. Then, I point to a loom on a top shelf, a small wooden inkle loom warped up with a half-finished project, and say, “And then there are things that she just has that are mine.” I tell my friend that now, I don’t let Lucy borrow anything without clearly marking on it with my name and the date it should be returned. I point to something that is marked like that; I don’t remember what the object is, but it has a sticker with my name and a date hand-written on it.

Then, I’m out with family, I think my brother and possibly Mom and Dad, or just Dad. I remember that we’re doing some kind of tour; parts of it are on a long tour bus. I am so tired of being on this thing, and I want to go home. My car is back at brother R’s house, so I can’t easily just leave. I start checking out street signs, having decided that I’ll just get a cab, and I need to know my location so I can call one. I get some street names, which I can’t remember now; they aren’t familiar, but in the dream they let me know where I am.

I see a huge Victorian house through the bus window, painted in rich dark greens and burgundies. It’s an exquisite Queen Anne, probably at least five thousand square feet, three or maybe four stories. I point it out to R. As I’m looking at it, my friend Hal comes out of a small outbuilding, wearing an Elizabethan ruff. He is with a group of costumed people.

I make a call on my cell phone, and get off the bus and wait for someone to pick me up. It doesn’t seem like I get a cab, more like a friend of a friend arrives to get me. I remember sitting three across the front bench seat of her car, and she is telling me about her cancer. She points at her midsection, and I think she has some kind of intestinal cancer, but then she points closer and I realize that she’s not pointing at her belly, but at her thigh. She explains in very technical language that it’s fully encapsulated, which means that it’s possible to touch it without causing damage; she asks if I want to feel it. I am hesitant, but she seems to want me to, so I reach out and gently touch it, her hand showing mine where to feel for the lump. The skin around it is tight, and the tissue is firm. I ask if she has a great deal of difficulty with edema; she seems to appreciate that I’m using technical terms, and we talk a little more about it.